Just This Once
by scrub456
Summary: It's Sherlock's birthday. But they don't do this. (A bit of best friends birthday fluff)


Coming awake slowly, Sherlock kept his eyes closed. Utilizing his other senses, he allowed himself the challenge of determining what disrupted his sleep.

Taste: _He'd not cleaned his teeth after the chips and terrible coffee the pub owner had foisted upon them at the conclusion of the case the previous evening. Greasy bitter thickness coated his tongue. He frowned. Hardly applicable._

Smell: _Beyond his own musk and the scent of his linens, the most immediate odor was an unusual blend of rubber and pine. Neither over powering, and definitely two separate distinct, and familiar, aromas. Distantly he picked up tea, brewed properly, and wood smoke from the fireplace. Telling._

Hearing: _A soft rustle of fabric very nearby, and the gentle hollow thumping of two gas filled objects bumping into each other was all he could hear. The lack of noise from the street below indicated the early hour. The rooms beyond his open door were quiet. Interesting._

Touch: _The extra blankets were a comfortable weight, leaving only his nose and the bit of his head not buried under pillows exposed to the chill of the room (the one thing he'd quickly grown to miss from his life in the States was that the radiator system used to heat the brownstone worked almost too well). A light pressure rested on the middle of his chest, slowly creeping along his sternum, toward his face. Not insistent enough, or coupled with any other telltale symptoms, to be a heart attack. And not teasing, or clingy, enough to be another person. He supposed both were rather disappointing, for obvious varying reasons._

Exhaling deeply through his nose, Sherlock shook his head so the pillow covering his eyes slid to the side, then craned his neck so he could peer down the length of his chest. There, in the grey light of early dawn, his suspicions were confirmed.

Clyde padded slowly, determinedly nearer. Two red helium balloons bumped along above him, secured to him with plain white string tied around his shell.

Sherlock dropped his head back to his pillows with an exasperated sigh, then turned his head to check the time. There on the bedside table was a small block of the dark rosin he preferred for his violin. The one sold exclusively at that little hole in the wall shop he'd discovered in Queens. The source of the pine scent, then. Not gift wrapped, but a silver bow was perched on top of the block. There was no note, no card, but the message was perfectly clear.

He carefully lifted Clyde to the floor, and reluctantly climbed out from under his warm covers. Checking to make sure that he'd actually worn pajamas to bed, he stepped into slippers and pulled on his dressing gown.

They didn't do this, wander about the house in night clothes. Various degrees of undress and disarray? Certainly (and most typically him). But some odd sense of propriety had always prevented him from revealing this one aspect of his existence. Unusual, as he'd definitely interfered with Watson's sleep often enough to see her in her own sleepwear (she never was without pajamas, a decision he suspected was wisely made after the very first day of their acquaintance).

He dropped the bow into the waste bin and the rosin into a pocket on his robe. Then gently picking Clyde up, Sherlock freed him from his festive bindings and popped both balloons before making his way downstairs to the sitting room.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps to take in the scene before him. A welcoming fire crackled in the fireplace. A pink bakery box sat on the coffee table next to the steaming tea pot. "Watson." He'd intended to sound stern, though he suspected he hadn't succeeded. She didn't even look up from her book, curled up under a quilt on the couch, picking at a very tempting looking sticky roll.

"Morning," she mumbled around a bite of roll.

"What is the meaning of this?" He took two steps nearer and shivered as the heat from the fire beckoned him nearer.

"You're the genius." She continued reading, though he caught the slight hint of a smile.

"We don't do this." Stepping fully into the warmth, the scent of the tea, black, PG Tips (and not the healthful herb infused green rubbish she normally made for herself), mixed with the sweetness from the pastries in the box. His stomach rumbled.

"Breakfast?" Grinning in earnest, she flashed him a mischievous look.

"You know to what I am referring." Sherlock huffed impatiently and placed Clyde carefully back into his terrarium. He returned to the coffee table, lifted the the lid off the teapot and sniffed.

"Water heated to boiling, poured directly into the pot, cooled to exactly 80 degrees Celsius, four tea bags, PG Tips, steeped for precisely four minutes." She sat up, scooted over to make room, and poured him a cup.

Taking the tea, he added a splash of milk and eyed the vacated spot on the couch warily before sitting next to her. He took a sip and didn't even try to make excuses for his pleased groan. "Your technique has improved greatly. Nearly perfect. Well done, Watson." He reached across her to tug some of the quilt over his own legs and then made a grab for her roll.

"Hands off," she laughed and nudged the bakery box toward him. "This one's mine. Yours is there, along with those scones you liked from that shop that time."

Sherlock stared at her until she laughed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, let me, your highness." She lifted another sticky bun onto a small plate he belatedly realized was decorated with what appeared to be superheroes, stuck a small striped candle into the center of it, and lit it with one of the long matches they used for the fireplace. She took his cup from him and handed him the plate.

"Watson."

"Sherlock."

"We don't… We don't do this." He stammered.

"It's just breakfast," she smiled. She was smiling quite a lot, actually. "But it is on fire, so if you could just…" She motioned to the candle. He blinked rapidly, blew it out, then placed the plate on the table.

"We never celebrated birthdays before." He turned to face her once more. "I have no desire for special outings or socially sanctioned gatherings with uncomfortable chit chat and awkward accolades for simply cheating death yet another year. The accomplishment of my existence lies solely with my parents, troublesome as that may be…" He paused and took a deep breath. "And to a much lesser extent, you. I've certainly done very little by way of self preservation."

"Uhm, thank you? Or, you're welcome, I guess." Joan shrugged. "And that was before. We don't have to do things the way we did them before. This isn't the brownstone. We aren't in New York. London is starting over. It's new experiences. And," she ducked her head, "I never did thank you, not really, for what you did."

"Watson." He sighed and let her fidget with and fix the quilt so that they were both covered. "What happened with the Captain was a betrayal. Despite years of loyalty, friendship even."

"But you didn't have to take the fall," she mumbled and pressed her shoulder to his.

"My childhood was unpleasant at best. My adolescence was miserable. As a young man here in London, my life was a series of one addiction after another, including life with Mor- with Irene." He took a sip of tea. "The only true happiness I've ever known, the only real stability, was my time with you, in our home. In our city." Sherlock sat the cup back down on the table. "So much has changed, and there are still so many threats out there. Moriarty. My father… Surely you, if anyone, can understand that I am loath to change any facet of our relationship."

"Sherlock, it's literally just breakfast." More laughter. "I'm not proposing. Or propositioning even. Though you didtell me you love me."

"Watson," he groaned and started to get up.

"Sorry… Sorry." She pulled him back down and tucked the quilt a bit too snuggly around him. "I know what you meant. And I hope you know I feel the same way." Joan turned her face to him, searching his eyes for understanding.

"I think abandoning your life, your family, and your career, to move halfway across the world, makes a fairly bold statement." Sherlock managed to quirk the corner of his mouth up into a slight smile.

"It really is just breakfast." Joan bumped their shoulders together once more.

"On my birthday." He sniffed disdainfully.

"Two people who love each other often do celebrate milestones." She poured them each more tea.

"We didn't celebrate yours last month. And that was certainly a milestone… Fifty, if I'm not mistaken." He accepted the tea with a pleased sigh.

She elbowed him. "We don't discuss age."

"But we exchange gifts?" He pulled the rosin from his pocket.

"A necessity. You're almost out, and kind of a snob about what you'll allow to touch your violin. I simply saved myself the frustration of dealing with you conducting a month long rosin experiment in the kitchen."

"You put a bow on it."

"A happy surprise, then." Joan pulled her legs up under the quilt and curled up at his side.

"You decorated Clyde with balloons, likely traumatizing him. And possibly me."

"You dressed him as a shark once and put him in my bed. Not to mention…"

Sherlock raised one hand to stop her. "Fair point." He slouched down a bit so she could rest her head on his shoulder. "You made a special, unnecessary, trip out of your way to the bakery."

"Look, if you don't want the roll..." Joan leaned forward for his plate, but he reached around her, dislodging her from his side, and snatched it away.

"I didn't say anything of the sort!" Sherlock leaned back into the couch and waited for Joan to settle once more. He held the plate between them so they could share. "No surprises or parties or other frivolous nonsense?"

Joan shook her head. "Just breakfast."

"Very well. I'll allow it." He shoved a too large bite of roll into his mouth. "Just this once."

She rolled her eyes, and smiled. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."


End file.
